


Make Me

by conshellation



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, hi, i hope it ok, jm so nervous about posting this im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:46:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conshellation/pseuds/conshellation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ashton and luke are sharing a dorm room and at night luke is afraid of the dark so he talks and talks and ashton is extremely annoyed until one day he tackles luke in bed and thinks of a way to shut him up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me

It’s like sharing a room with an eight year old, to be honest.

“Ash?”

Silence.

“Ash…?” Luke nibbles his lip, stirring in his bed to face his roommate’s bed.

Followed by another expected silence.

“Are you awake?” Luke whispers again, his voice penetrating the heavy quietness between the two beds in the dimly-lit room, with only Luke’s laptop screen with Netflix as an effective enough nightlight, although Inception had finished hours ago.

“I am  _now_.” Ashton hisses, and Luke doesn’t need the light to sense Ashton’s glaring the shit out of him.

“You went to sleep  _ten minutes_ ago.” Luke narrows his eyes. “No-one can fall asleep  _that_ quickly, surely.”

“When you’re tired as _fuck_ , it’s surprisingly possible.” Ashton replies through gritted teeth, his sleep deprivation due to having to go through this  _every fucking night_ finally getting the better of him. In all honesty, he can’t remember the last time he’d slept solidly for longer than half an hour the nights Luke’s in the room, and he aches with the memory of how heavenly his bed had felt when Luke visited home for a weekend. “Anyway, seeing as it has only been ten minutes, you’ve barely given me any  _chance_. ”

Luke gives him a tentative smirk, although he’s unsure if Ashton’s looking at him or not. “What’s the time?”

“Late enough for you to go the fuck to  _sleep_.” Ashton mutters, followed by a brief, obedient pause, and a quiet shuffling and moment of a glowing phone screen. “Two forty-five.” He sighs, horror flooding his voice as he remembers it’s only  _four hours_  until his lecture and the only attempts at sleeping he’s made are undeniably very pathetic ones.

“You know what’s weird?” Luke breaks his own silence. Ashton waits. “-How ‘quarter to three’ sounds so much later than two forty-five, but they’re exactly the same time, right?”

“Nice observation.” The sarcasm in Ashton’s reply is biting.

“No but-… it’s like, you know prices on stuff?” Luke begins.

“I’m familiar, yes.” Ashton grits his teeth, the sarcasm refusing to budge.

“Like-… do you not find it strange how, let’s say; something for £2.99 looks cheaper than £3.00, regardless of the fact we’re fully aware it’s 1p difference? You would’ve thought with knowing this, we would be able to overlook this obvious marketing scheme, but-… it still seems to catch us out.” He frowns thoughtfully.

“How else can we keep 1p coins in use?” Ashton counteracts. “They need some purpose.”

“I vote they should be banished. What does anyone ever get out of waiting for 1p change apart from crippling awkwardness?”

“That’s why they have charity boxes in nearly every shop.” Ashton mumbles.

“It still won’t make much; 300 1p coins will only give you three quid, and that’s barely enough for a coffee.”

“I think charities generally have more important focuses to spend their money on than  _coffees_ , Luke.”

“Still; it’s only a tiny amount of money compared to how  _much_  of it there always is.” Luke sighs, reflecting on the repressed childhood memory of how many broken china shards he’d had to sweep up after overloading his piggy bank with copper money then attempting to carry the heavy object across the kitchen floor. “They’re such a useless coin when they’re not playing mind games with us.”

“Marketing and advertising is one big mind game.” Ashton says. “That’s the  _point_.”

“I know, but-…” Luke narrows his eyes. “It’s weird to consider the fact it  _is_  just a mind game. It’s such a good mind game you always seem to forget that that’s all it is. Taking 1p off prices, colour schemes, typeface-…”

“ _Mental_ , isn’t it?!” Ashton remarks sarcastically. “It’s almost as if people are  _paid_  to consider these factors when mass producing products and brands!”

Luke pauses, repositioning himself with a quiet shuffle. “There’s no need to be rude about it.”

“Stop asking stupid questions, then.” Ashton sighs. “I’m  _tired._ ”

“It wasn’t a question.” Luke contradicts. “Just a thought.”

“That I don’t need to hear right now.” Ashton checks the time, and his heart sinks at the addition of digits.

“It’s important to consider the wider spectrum of human life, Ashton.” Luke mutters. “Self-awareness is essential.”

“Sleep is  _also_  essential, believe it or not.” Ashton nestles his head as far as it will go into his pillow, as if he could physically escape the world of semi-darkness and Luke’s voice and enter a cotton street of blissful silence.

Well, he can dream.

“”That’s questionable; have I ever told you about the Russian sleep experiment?” A voice pipes up about a minute later.

Only he can’t, because Luke won’t  _fucking shut up._

“Yes.” Ashton lies, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“Isn’t it weird how at the end of the fifteen days, the people were so reluctant to return back to reality to the point of resorting to suicide?” Ashton feels Luke frown. “They put up a surprisingly fierce fight in the process of being removed, like-… they screamed to be left back in the chamber and demanded to have the gas turned back on. Even when the three surviving subjects got taken to a medical facility, the remaining two with working vocal chords continuously begged for the gas to be kept awake…”

“Did you pay attention to anything else in that experiment?” Ashton exclaims. “I don’t think digesting your own flesh is a particularly healthy repercussion of having no sleep for fifteen days.”

“Well, at that point I think it was only about  _ten_  days, but-…”

“Stop spending so much time on Creepypasta, for the love of god.” Ashton rolls his eyes, having all to much knowledge of what Luke tends to scare himself with in order to stop himself from falling asleep.

“Why Creepy _pasta_?” Ashton can feel Luke tilting his head on one side in the very same contemplative expression that’s nearly constantly written on his face.

That’s the  _thing_  with Luke; he always has to turn everything into a  _question_. One more than often Ashton finds either very difficult or impossible to answer.

“Ask the creators.” Ashton dismisses

“Why not Creepy _pizza_?” Luke considers, ignoring him.

“That sounds like some kind of gothic Italian restaurant.” Ashton can’t stop himself from snorting slightly despite his tiredness wearing nearly unbearable.

“Creepylasagna…” Luke giggles to himself.

“Okay, I get the message.” Ashton replies to his mild self amusement.

“Creepyravioli?”

“That’s even less impressive.” His voice is overlaid with a deadpan tone.

“Creepyrisotto.”

“Creepy go the fuck to  _sleep_.” Ashton hisses, the frustration quickly returning.

“I’ve never heard of that dish before.” Luke jokes weakly, although he can sense Ashton’s irritation growing, despite his uncomfortable guilt. “I’m not tired, anyway.” Luke lies, trying to hide an oncoming yawn from his rooommate despite him lying under a metre away from him.

“Bullshit.” Ashton doesn’t even need to see Luke’s yawn to sense his tiredness, that, to be honest, is probably around equal to Ashton’s.

Due to Luke’s lack of direct response to Ashton’s contradiction, he’s safe in assuming he’s right.

After a few quiet minutes (although he’s so tired he couldn’t care less if it had been thirty seconds or an hour) Ashton’s tired mind takes a daring risk of assuming maybe, just  _maybe_ , he might actually be able to-

“Are you asleep?” The one and only voice Ashton’s the least prepared to deal with hearing, pipes up (although they’re the only two in the room, so he figures anyone else’s voice would probably be slightly alarming.)

For  _fuck’s sake._

Nevertheless, he’d probably rather deal with a stranger than Luke. At least they’d shut up quicker.

“Yes.” Ashton hisses, the frustration really beginning to reach its boiling point. “Fuck  _off_.”

“What have I told you about rudeness?” Luke jokes, despite the fact Ashton probably couldn’t reach a more negative dimension of a remotely joke-y mood if he put effort into it.

“What have I told you about shutting up and letting me  _sleep_?” Ashton snaps. “What is it  _now_?”

“Soaps are so unrealistic.” Luke mutters after a couple of deadly-silent seconds; probably the most silence Ashton’s experienced since Luke had visited home.

He’s about to roll his eyes and turn over, before he hesitates. “The cleaning product, or TV programme?”

“TV programme.” Luke answers. “I can’t really find anything particularly unbelievable about handwash right now.”

Ashton wouldn’t put it past him to pick out something.

He sighs, shutting his eyes and considering how many coffees it will take him to function for more than an hour tomorrow. “What, then?”

“Eastenders-” Luke begins. “Why the  _fuck_ does no one own a washing machine?”

 _Here we go._  Ashton doesn’t open his eyes.

“They’re not  _that_ expensive; I’d give it an estimation of £200 from Argos at  _best._  I’m sure they could all chip in and gather up a bit of money together and buy one, I mean; they have stable jobs and a reasonable income, don’t they?”

“What’s the point when you have a laundrette literally  _in_  the Square?” Ashton retorts.

“Ash, this isn’t the eighties anymore.” Luke rolls his eyes. “No one goes to the laundrette anymore apart from my grandma.”

“Why doesn’t she go get a washing machine from Argos, then?” Ashton tests, although he’s beyond belief as to why he’s still talking; it’s only  _encouragement_  for Luke to continue this verbal leakage he’d been trying for so long to fix. He can’t give up now.

“Everyone on Corrie seems to own one.” Luke narrows his eyes. “Why can’t they donate a few?”

“They live in the middle of London, they’re hardly in  _need_.” Ashton frowns at Luke’s use of the word ‘donate’. “Not mentioning it’ll be a bit of a journey for the washing machines; 300 miles from Manchester down to London.”

“I used to do it all the time, to see you.” Luke smiles contentedly, and if he’s not mistaken, the small noise Ashton responds with is a chuckle, not a sigh.

“You’re not a washing machine.” Ashton mumbles a few moments later.

“The distance is still the same.” Luke shrugs. “Not being a washing machine doesn’t equal 299 miles.”

“Doesn’t that seem like a lot less, though?” Ashton raises an eyebrow, backtracking on Luke’s previous musings.

“It does, actually.” Luke thinks. “Although we’re talking miles, not prices, aren’t we?”

“Hm.” Ashton responds with the most effective conversation closer he can think of aside ‘k’.

The following silence might actually have lasted a few seconds longer than the previous.

“They all seem to have  _dishwashers_  though, don’t they?”

“For the love of  _god_.” Ashton shuts his eyes again, pulling his duvet over his head.

Luke chuckles, rolling over to face Ashton’s bed. “These are the important questions of life, Ash.”

“Okay, I’ve got one.” Ashton says. “How many pillows to the face would it take for you to shut up?”

Luke chuckles, his tone laced with mischief. “Well, I think you should-” The rest of his sentence is cut off by a slap to the face with one of Ashton's pillows, and it’s surprisingly forceful. " _Ow_ , you bastard!

“One down, three to go.” Ashton mutters.

“How did you aim so well?” Luke frowns.

“Instinct.” Ashton replies. “Plus, it’s never completely dark in this room, is it?” He sighs at the constant glow of Luke’s laptop, actually in awe it hadn’t melted yet with the amount he leaves it on at night.

“It’s not  _that_ much light.” Luke contradicts, taking the pillow Ashton had thrown at him and snuggling into it, breathing in the comforting scent of his shampoo. “Just enough for me.”

“Certainly enough for  _me_ , too.” Ashton repositions himself on his slightly flatter sleeping quarters, beginning to regret sacrificing his pillow for silence that he isn’t even  _getting_.

They begin to descend into another potential silence, although Ashton doesn’t have the strength to hope for anything more than five minutes.

“I wonder what the sunset looks like from Jupiter?” Luke mumbles to himself.

That’s it.

There’s another silence, and Luke braces himself for another pillow to the face.

A few tense moments of nothing later, he’s unexpectedly tackled by something that’s deems considerably heavier, and stronger than a mere pillow, and he finds his arms pinned to the mattress, and Ashton's face centimetres away from his.

“Would you shut the fuck  _up_  already?!” Ashton hisses; although it sounds like more of a threat than a question, and the lack of distance between Luke’s lips and Ashton’s makes his stomach flutter.

Luke could respond with a chuckle and a remark something along the lines of  _'you're cute when you're angry'_ to antagonise Ashton even further, although when he eyes the boy above him with his sandy blonde hair framing every flawless crevice of his face, he can only mutter two words; which, in all honesty, are probably going to lead to a lot more bad than good.

“Make me.”

Ashton’s caught off guard for a couple of disorientated moments, and only one strategy can come to mind.

He nibbles his lip in a brief moment of inhibition, although being so beyond the point of tired, it barely lasts longer than three seconds. And, even if it’s for a minute, an hour or maybe even longer, it’s the only resolution he can foresee pointing towards the direction of shutting Luke up.

Without wasting a single second longer, he leans down, finding Luke’s face with his apparent ‘instinct’, and presses their lips together in such a clumsy fashion it’s a blurred line between a kiss and a lip-crusher.

He instantly feels Luke grin into the kiss, and Ashton feels the reciprocation in the form of Luke’s fingers lacing into his hair, kissing him back with equally as much force.

A couple of minutes pass and neither of them make any effort in pulling away; it’s not even a strategy of shutting Luke up anymore given that Ashton had lazily rolled into the space beside him in bed (claiming his lost pillow in the process) and they’d descended from some car-crash kiss into gentle, affectionate pecks. Luke’s fingers were still lost in the black tangle of Ashton’s hair, but they’ve exchanged their desperation for gentle caressing.

And maybe Ashton doesn’t want to stop. Or go to his lecture tomorrow.

Or back to his own bed.


End file.
